


Locked In

by SentenceFirstVerdictAfterward



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25049743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SentenceFirstVerdictAfterward/pseuds/SentenceFirstVerdictAfterward
Summary: “I...” she began, panting a little, “I was testing a theory.”“And?” he asked, a hopeful smile playing around his lips. “Will you share your findings?”“I definitely don’t hate you, Draco.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 139





	Locked In

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal love and gratitude to Dot who is the best beta (and person) I know.
> 
> Also the transition from Pages to AO3 is making the spacing a bit wonky. I'm working to fix it, but I apologize if it's hokey looking.

Second Seventh Year was always going to be a little different.For Hermione Granger's part, she had hoped that "a little different" would be a positive thing. As her time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had historically involved being pulled annually into peril of every size and description by her best friend, Harry Potter, different ought to have meant a _quiet_ final year of school. 

Hermione should have known better. 

A deafening, ominous crack of thunder sounded as students gathered in the Great Hall for the start of term feast. Such weather inside was not odd by Hogwarts standards, because the ceiling had always been bewitched to reflect the night sky. The issue was that the real night sky was littered with stars, not churning with clouds like those depicted above the long tables where students ate. Over the summer, witches and wizards from across the world had gathered to rebuild Hogwarts. And while it was clear they had done their very best to put the school back to rights, it turned out some things really required Dumbledore's special touch. 

Other subtle differences came to light in the following days and weeks, not just to the castle, but to student life as well. There was to be no house competition this year. It hardly seemed fair when there were only about fifteen Slytherins left. A large group of them had made agreements with the new leadership at Durmstrang to finish their schooling there. Another group, though this one was spoken about only in whispers, was in Azkaban, which had been restored to its former foreboding glory more quickly even than Hogwarts. 

Classes were different as well. More emphasis was put on Muggle Studies than ever before, and Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were missing from everyone's course schedule. Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had decided that the previous spring had served as at least several years worth of lessons on that particular topic. 

There was also a strange sort of lightness that seemed to have settled on the population of Hogwarts. When Voldemort had been ‘killed’ by The Boy Who Lived the first time around, there was always a threat in the general consciousness that he might not be truly gone, that he could come back. Once he had been well and truly vanquished to dust, however, that threat was gone, and it showed in the behaviors of everyone off of whose shoulders the weight had been lifted. Professor Flitwick, for instance, had allowed himself to be used for levitation practice during a lesson for the first years, instead of resigning himself to flying across the classroom as a result of the first years' abysmal aim. Sybill Trelawney had predicted exceedingly positive outcomes for her new third-year cohort, including exceptionally long lives and extravagant wealth. For one delighted boy, she even foresaw a sweepstakes win earning him a lifetime supply of Droobles Best Blowing Gum. 

This is not to say that life at school was now idyllic and perfect for everyone. Just as Hogwarts had needed repairs after the war, so too had its students. Members of so-called ‘intact’ houses, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor, had returned in greater numbers than their Slytherin counterparts, but by no means had everyone returned. For some students, the trauma that resulted from the Battle of Hogwarts required more than a mere summer holiday away from school. 

The students who had come back to school had not necessarily completed their healing journeys either. Lavender Brown was strangely quiet and had taken to hiding her scarred face from view with a curtain of sandy hair. Parvati Patil wouldn't let Padma Patil out of her sight and vice versa. This particular issue escalated to the point that their course schedules had been altered when Padma had gone into hysterics during an Astronomy class. Dean Thomas was prone to night terrors and had at least twice been held down by every occupant of his dormitory to stop him hexing the place to smithereens in his sleep.

Hermione's closest friends, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, had been dealing with their grief in a more lighthearted way. They were now taking cues from the _Fred and George Weasley Rulebook on Extraordinary Misbehavior_ (an actual parchment and ink text Harry had found under a bed in The Burrow one afternoon that summer). Hermione was surprised when they'd written a joint letter to George, asking for a 'return on Harry's investment in the joke shop'. She was somewhat less surprised when George responded with very enthusiastic support and an entire trunk of loot from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. 

The faculty had all but given up trying to stop the Puking Pastilles and Canary Creams from infiltrating their classrooms after that special delivery. Because there was no Filch around and no house points to be lost, punishments were generally no more severe than a halfhearted scolding, or a trip to the office of the Headmistress, who would stare sternly over the top of her spectacles while surreptitiously nudging a tin of shortbread toward the offender. After all, Professor McGonagall could hardly hand out detentions for the Wheezes when there was a rumor floating around that she herself had once used Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder to get out of a staff meeting. 

As Head Girl, Hermione could not condone this behavior. At least, she couldn't condone it in public. Behind closed doors, she was grateful that Harry and Ron were goofing about and causing small bouts of trouble, rather than being drawn into almighty, catastrophic, life or death trouble. It was this recent penchant for troublemaking that found their good friend hurrying down a deserted hallway in the dead of night, headed for the potions storeroom. 

“What on earth do you need that for?” Hermione had hissed in response to Harry's whispered request for boomslang skin in the library that afternoon. 

“Lee Jordan’s sent us a recipe for a potion that he got at a pub, and he said if-“ 

Ron cut across what was likely at least a marginally reasonable explanation verbally as well as physically as he leaned in front of Harry.  “We’re gonna spin out, Hermione!” he said conspiratorially. Glee was painted across his features, mingling with his freckles. 

It wasn’t the first time Harry and Ron had sought out an altered state of consciousness. Harry, who’d had night terrors of his own, had explained to Hermione that sometimes he simply couldn’t make the terrible thoughts go away. He would go through spells where they haunted his every hour, waking and otherwise. If anyone deserved to alter their consciousness for a while, she thought (assuming it wasn’t impacting his grades), it was Harry. A lot of people had lost a lot of things in the war, but Harry had lost more than most. 

Ron was also dealing with great and terrible grief. It wasn’t until the Weasleys had lost Fred that they came to realize how different he was from George. There was a whole host of so-called 'Fredisms' that would be sorely missed now that he was gone. Molly had been unable to leave her bed until Minerva McGonagall had shown up on the doorstep of The Burrow with young, orphaned Teddy Lupin, asking for a favor. 

The other Weasleys had also thrown themselves into healing work. Arthur had been promoted to a newly created position in the Ministry of Magic. With Percy’s help, he spent his every waking hour working to repair the tattered relations between Muggle and Wizarding London. Charlie had disappeared into the wilderness in Romania, looking for the fabled Striped Snout Wyvern. Bill had created an outreach program with the help of his new wife, Fleur, to provide counseling and mentoring to victims of Fenrir Greyback, and other rogue werewolves. As a favor to Ron, he personally made monthly visits to a quiet office in a deserted corridor on the fourth floor to speak with Lavender about her new life. George was up to his eyeballs in orders for Wizard Wheezes. It appeared that there was a great need for humor in the aftermath of great destruction. Ginny, along with Harry, had taken up pre-Auror training in earnest and could be found in the Room of Requirement (which, had somehow made it through the battle entirely unscathed) cursing and hexing and, occasionally, crying, though this was happening less and less as time went on. 

This just left Ron. Still unable to find a vocation he truly cared about, Ron had devoted himself to simply having a nice time. Hermione couldn’t fault him for pacing himself, for although she scoffed at the Golden Trio label, she knew that it would open doors for Ron when he was ready to step through. He just needed time. 

Time and boomslang skin, apparently. 

“And why do _I_ need to get it?” Hermione asked gently. 

“You’re Head Girl!” Ron said with a roll of his eyes.  “If Harry and I go walkabout in the dead of night, they’ll think we’re pilfering ingredients to brew narcotic potions.” 

Hermione let that statement settle momentarily. When Ron did not seem to notice what he’d said, she looked at Harry, who simply grinned, apparently pleased to be of no help.

“But...you _are_ pilfering ingredients to brew narcotic potions, or-I mean-I’m pilfering them,” she said slowly. 

“See? Now you’ve got it. You’ll do it then?” Ron asked, beaming at her. Hermione had sighed heavily but had agreed to do the deed. 

Her feet whispered against the stone floors as she turned down the last corridor on her way to the storeroom. She’d simply charm the door open, grab what she needed, and be off into the night. Boomslang skin wasn’t wildly useful or very rare, so it was unlikely anyone would miss it. 

“ _Alohomora_ ,” she whispered, tapping the handle with her wand after taking a final look back up the corridor. There was an odd sort of crackle in the air as she heaved the heavy door open and stepped over the threshold, but Hermione chalked it up to nerves. It had been a while since she’d been out wandering after curfew, but she could safely assume that Head Boy Ernie MacMillan was more likely to be curled up with Justin Finch-Fletchley than out prowling for students out of bed.

Hermione had been in the potions storeroom once or twice before and had never been too fond of it. Because of its location in the dungeons, the air was always cool and a little damp. There was also an eerie green light that barely illuminated the rows and rows of shelves that filled the room. The green light was not enough to read labels by but was plenty effective for generally creepy ambiance. Indeed, now that Hermione thought about it, that may have been what Snape was going for. 

Although Professor Slughorn had been the Potions Master for more than a year, he seemed unable to alter any portion of the storeroom or potions classroom to suit his own needs. The posthumous control Snape had over the room didn’t bother Hermione too much, as he was at least very organized. She’d seen Professor Slughorn mix up vials on his own desk, which was a fraction of the size of this room.

“ _Lu_ -“ Hermione opened her mouth to cast Lumos, but several things happened at once that captured her attention and prevented her from completing the charm. The first was that the door to the room swung closed with a dull thud. Second, a zap, like static electricity, but far worse hit her hand. 

“Ouch!” 

Immediately, the grip Hermione had on her wand went slack, and it flew up to the ceiling, where it stuck fast against the stone. Almost instantly, the wand was joined by another, which could only mean one thing. There was someone else in the storeroom with her. 

“You bloody idiot!” 

Suddenly it was as though someone had poured cold water on Hermione. The chill started at the crown of her head, flowing down until even her feet were frozen. She _knew_ that voice.

“Malfoy?” she hissed, looking around. A lantern was coming around the corner of the L shelves, held aloft by a pale hand. The cuffed sleeve of a crisp, dark-colored shirt was visible in the dim light, and then there he was. Draco Malfoy ’ s steely blue eyes were narrowed. They widened briefly as they alighted on Hermione before closing as he raised his face to the heavens.

“Gods, not you. Anyone but you!” he moaned. 

“What are you _doing_ here?” she asked, her Head Girl inclinations taking over automatically. 

“Me? What are _you_ doing here?” he countered indignantly. Malfoy did have a point. He was indeed breaking about 14 school rules (down from 37 in Filch’s time), but then again, so was she. Her only option would be to prevail upon his better nature. 

She hoped to Merlin he actually had a better nature.

“Malfoy, it’s...it’s alright. I won’t say anything if you don't. Just take what you need and go. We’ll pretend this never happened.” Malfoy looked at her as though she'd grown another head. 

“I'm not worried about bloody detention, Granger!” he said, pushing past her to the door.  “Or did you not notice?” 

He yanked on the handle with one hand, still holding the lantern aloft. 

“Notice what? What are you doing?” Hermione asked, watching as Malfoy set the lantern down and began tugging on the handle with both hands. Then he planted his feet and pulled with the entirety of his body weight. 

“Malfoy, what are you doing? Just open the door!” 

He twisted around to look at her strangely. “Are you mad? What’s it look like I’ve been trying to do? It won’t bloody open! You’ve obviously set off some sort of anti-theft jinx. Now the door is locked, and our wands are gone, or did that also escape your notice?” 

Hermione pursed her lips as what he was saying began to sink in. 

“It’s...don’t be ridiculous!” she cried, putting her hand on the door handle beneath both of Malfoy's and pulling with all her might, ignoring how implausible it was that she should be able to open the door if he hadn’ been.

“But he wouldn’t!” 

Hermione snatched her hand back, noticing how close it had been to Malfoy’s.

“Slughorn wouldn’t jinx his own potion...” she trailed off as the color drained from her face.  “Snape.” 

Draco sighed and pulled his own hands from the door. 

“Snape,” he repeated. 

Of course. It was just like paranoid, spiteful Snape to jinx his potion storeroom to protect it from thieves. She had been praising him for his organizational skills extending beyond the grave only moments ago. Why shouldn’t his anti-theft measures be equally persistent?The second she had stepped into the room the trap had sprung. She’d felt the crackling of the magic in the air.

“Wait,” Hermione said, advancing on Malfoy, who was leaning against the closed door, looking terribly put upon.  “Why didn’t it get tripped when you came in?” 

He arched a brow.  “You honestly think Snape would booby trap the store cupboard to catch his own house trespassing?” 

Hermione frowned. While Snape had turned hero in the end, there was no denying his behavior at school had been decidedly awful toward anyone who wasn’t in his own house and was especially awful toward Gryffindors. In fact, she wouldn’t have been shocked if the jinx was specifically targeted toward her own house. Another thought occurred to Hermione, eliciting a gasp.

“But Snape is dead!” 

Hermione might look back on this moment later in life with great embarrassment, but being the Brightest Witch was hard enough to maintain during business hours, let alone at midnight, locked in a closet with Draco Malfoy. 

“Five points to Gryffindor,” Malfoy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He began to sink, sliding down the door until he was seated on the floor. 

"What I mean is,” Hermione paused, trying to gather herself, “if he’s dead and can’t do the counter jinx, how on earth are we going to get out of here?” 

Her fellow captive waved a hand vaguely. “It’ll wear off, by the grace of Merlin.” 

Hermione looked down at him, trying to work through the problem in her head. She had no wand. Malfoy had no wand. They were down in the dungeons and far enough away from the Slytherin common room that no one would hear them screaming. And it was Friday. Oh gods, it was Friday. No one would come looking for potion ingredients until Monday at the earliest. Surely someone would notice they were missing, though, right? Harry and Ron would notice she hadn’t come back, wouldn’t they? She imagined how she’d left them, already half-drunk on butterbeer, and decided they were unlikely to fret. 

“What about-“ 

“Granger, I don't know how long it will take for this spell to wear off, so for the sake of my sanity, please shut up,” Malfoy said sharply, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the locked door.

“Well, I’m not giving up,” she said defiantly.

Hermione’s eyes traveled around the room and up to the ceiling where their wands were firmly stuck. Perhaps she could climb the shelves and get them down. She squared her shoulders and grasped the wooden shelf at eye level, and then the one above it. Once her feet were off the ground, she gave a cautious bounce to see if the shelves were strong enough to hold a number of glass jars and vials in addition to a 17-year-old girl. They seemed sturdy, so she continued her ascent. On the fifth shelf, there was a creak, and she froze in place, waiting for the structure to collapse. Malfoy opened one eye.

"What on earth are you doing?” 

“Getting our wands!” she called down as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. The room’s ceiling was high, and the shelves roughly three times Malfoy’s height, but it really looked like the distance would not be too far when she reached the top. She would simply hold on with one hand, reach out and-

“Ah!” 

When Hermione was halfway up, she made a grab for the next shelf, and her hand had gone right through it. At that same moment, the shelves supporting her feet dissolved as well, sending her tumbling toward the floor. She braced herself for the impact and the pain, but it did not come. 

“Oof!” 

The collision knocked the air from Malfoy’s chest, but he had managed to catch her. Hermione was stunned, both by the fall and the fact that Malfoy had bothered to save her. She stared up at him, momentarily dazed, as he fastidiously avoided looking at her. 

“I’m going to drop you now,” he said boredly, and Hermione scrambled out of his grasp. Once she was standing on solid ground again, she looked up at the shelves. 

“Those must be jinxed too. Damn him!” 

“Such language, Granger,” Malfoy said with a smirk, returning to his position against the door. He gave an exaggerated yawn and closed his eyes again. “You didn’t think he’d make it that easy to escape, did you?”

“Well, thank you, at any rate,” she said quietly. Malfoy did not respond.

Hermione sighed and settled herself on the ground across from Malfoy, leaning back against an endcap. She counted one second, and then sixty seconds, and on and on. 

_Three thousand five hundred and ninety-eight, three thousand five hundred and ninety-nine..._

She stopped counting abruptly and looked at Malfoy. It occurred to her that she hadn’t encountered Blaise outside. Malfoy, while friendly with most of the Slytherins in his year generally only included a few of them in his schemes. Of the original crew, Blaise was the only one left at Hogwarts. Goyle had transferred to Durmstrang when the Wizengamot couldn’t make treason charges stick, and Crabbe was dead.

“Is anyone waiting for you?” Hermione asked, nearly knowing the answer already. 

“Did it really take an hour for that to occur to you?” he drawled. Clearly she hadn’t been the only one counting to pass the time.

“Just answer the question, Malfoy.” 

“This may come as a great shock to you, Granger, but not everyone operates as part of a trifecta. Some of us have our own independent lives.” 

“You used to operate as part of a trifecta,” she said quietly, unable to keep the statement from sounding like an accusation. Draco scoffed at her for what felt like the millionth time. 

“You mean Crabbe and Goyle? I could have traded them for anyone with half an operating brain cell. And while I’ll admit to enjoying having a spare bit of muscle around, it wasn’t as though we were fawning all over one another, sharing our darkest secrets and finishing each other's sent-“ 

"Sentences? Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione cut him off, affronted. Draco looked at her skeptically. 

“Even before you saved the bloody world you three were insufferable.” 

He raked a hand through his hair, which had grown messy since he’d been back at school. Hermione remembered the Draco Malfoy of sixth year whose hair had been magicked into place with something like military precision, but the war’s toll was visible on him if one looked closely, and Hermione was somewhat ashamed to admit she had. As that crack of thunder sounded in the Great Hall, despite the mild evening outside, her eyes had settled, seemingly of their own volition, on a white blonde head of hair across the cavernous room. He stood in a cluster of only several other students, where there had once been a hundred. She had been surprised to see him standing there in his Hogwarts robes like any other student. She hadn’t been the only one looking either. As they moved toward the Gryffindor, Harry had whispered to Ron and Hermione that the only reason Malfoy was spending this year at Hogwarts and not Azkaban was a strongly worded letter delivered to the minister. The message would have carried little weight, had it not been from the man that Malfoy was tasked with assassinating, Albus Dumbledore. 

“Malfoy, I think that-“

“You're going to deny it?” he asked, perching an arm on his bent knee while the other leg lay outstretched, his foot almost touching Hermione’s knee. 

“I think it says more about you that you think we’re insufferable than it says about us.” Draco’s practiced eye-roll was a thing to behold. Hermione half expected one of his eyes to fall right out as they made their exaggerated rotation. 

“Please, enlighten me,” he sneered, “what does it say about me that I find you three vomit-inducing?” 

It was this sort of build-up that had lead her to raise her hand against him in their third year. As a teenager, Hermione had consistently tried to let Malfoy’s cold remarks and insensitive actions roll off her back and had encouraged her best friends to do the same. “He’s not worth it”, she’d told Harry and Ron countless times. But that afternoon, outside the castle, with Buckbeak’s execution bearing down on them, he’d just gone too far. 

She still remembered the crack of her knuckles against his jaw and the sickening sound his head made as it bounced off the wall. She remembered Crabbe and Goyle’s looks of horror and shock that she should be the one who would finally resort to violence. Ron and Harry had been equal parts awestruck and disappointed that they hadn’t been the first to lay hands on a member of the Slytherin triad. 

“Well, I’d say you’re jealous, but that seems rather obvious,” Hermione brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from her jeans as she spoke, her voice full of ice.

Draco laughed, shaking his head as he responded. 

“What on earth is there to be jealous of?” he spat, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Perhaps you thought it might be nice to spend time with someone who amounts to more than a bit of borrowed muscle,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

“Oh yeah? Because Ronald Weasley is the picture of emotional intelligence and intellect?” 

“Don’t you dare talk about Ron!” she snarled, although he was right. Ron wasn’t great at intellectual conversations or emotional ones if Hermione was completely honest. She loved him nonetheless, and wouldn't hear him disparaged. 

Malfoy leaned forward, eyeing her with interest. “Touched the Weasley nerve, have I?” 

“What's _that_ supposed to mean?” Hermione asked, shoving her palms against the stone floor of the closet as she glared across at him.

“Please, Granger. In the interim, we had a war, yes, but _please_ don’t pretend we’ve all forgotten the Granger-Weasley-Brown debacle in sixth year.” 

Whatever Hermione had planned to say next caught in her throat. She wanted desperately to tell Malfoy he was wrong, but the words would not come. She remembered the searing pain the first time she’d seen Ron’s hand ghost down Lavender’s cheek in a corridor between classes. At the time, she had desperately wished it had been her cheek, but as the time had gone on, she realized how wrong they were as anything but friends. 

That thought, however true it might have been, still hadn’t entirely snuffed out the jealous hurt she felt from time to time when Ron artfully arranged Lavender’s hair in front of her scars, or introduced her to Bill as his girlfriend, or sat up with her as she completed her first night as a werewolf and all her subsequent transformations. It wasn’t that Hermione wanted Ron, specifically. It was more that he had awakened in her the idea of wanting anyone at all, and now that the space he had previously filled was vacant, there seemed to be something missing in her life. 

“We're _friends_ ,” she said shortly, as though that explained everything. Malfoy chuckled. 

“Right,” he said, nodding, “just friends. How unlucky you must feel to be _just_ friends with two of the most famous wizards in recent history.” 

“Firstly, not to be smug, but I'm famous in my own right, and secondly, that just goes to prove my point!” Hermione countered hotly.

“How’s that?” 

The answer to his question was not a kind one, but there was blood in the water now, so she let him have it anyway. “Because clearly you’ve never had a friend worth having, and so you vastly undervalue friendship.” 

Even as she said it, the words felt sad. It wasn't that she was saying this to hurt him, it was just the conclusion she’d come to after watching him for seven years. Well, she hadn’t been watching him that closely, had she? It was more that he was always around, especially when it was most inconvenient. 

“I have friends!” Malfoy said defensively, tugging his fingers through his hair once more. 

“Do you?” Hermione asked, genuinely curious. 

“Of course!” 

“Real friends?” she pressed, leaning forward slightly. “Do you have, what’d you call them, intellectual and emotionally intelligent conversations with Blaise? Pansy?” 

He seemed to sense this line of questioning wouldn't go well and changed course.  “This may shock you, Granger, but one does not need friends to survive. I do just fine on my own,” 

“That sounds awful,” Hermione said softly, looking once more at the stone floor. 

“To you, maybe, but not everyone is pining to be part of the Golden Triplets or whatever they’re calling you in the papers.” 

“We’re not talking about my friends, though. We’re talking about _any_ friends. And if we’re such a bloody nuisance, why are you reading articles about us?”

There was a hint of triumph in her voice, but Malfoy refused to be caught.  “Granger, please do not mistake my interest in the world for some sort of fascination with you three, _celebrities_ though you may be. You have plenty of fans, I’m sure.” 

His voice was full of disdain, and something about this jab _did_ strike a nerve in Hermione.

“You say that as though we asked for this.” 

“Tell me the three of you haven’t benefited from this whole ordeal,” Malfoy hissed.  “Tell me honestly that you haven’t received an iota of special treatment. You can’t though, can you? We’ve all seen the way Flitwick looks at Weaselby with big moon eyes, even though his charm work is garbage. And there’s no missing Potter’s fan mail being carried in by no fewer than ten owls at breakfast. And the two of them would have earned themselves about a hundred detentions this month if the old guard was still around, yet they've managed to get off scot-free. You, though,” he paused, pointing at her as though something had just occurred to him. “What's been your reward for saving the world?” 

Hermione scowled at him. Of course Malfoy would look at it in terms of what each of them had received. He gave no thought to the other trappings of war. 

She looked forward to enlightening him. 

“Well, let’s see. There’s this,” she began, yanking up the sleeve of her sage-colored jumper to reveal the dirty word that had been carved into her flesh by his aunt, still livid on her forearm. Malfoy's expression faltered for a mere heartbeat before the mask returned. “Spell damage is tricky,” she went on, “hard to remove. Did you know that it still hurts sometimes?” 

Draco opened up his mouth, a pithy retort no doubt ready on his tongue. Hermione ignored him. 

“My parents are lost. Gone forever. I obliviated them to keep them safe, and now they’re gone, and I have no family left in the world. Harry still has nightmares. His godfather is dead. His mentor is dead. Many of his friends are dead. Ron's lost his brother, his girlfriend is a werewolf, and he spends a lot of time out of his mind on butterbeer or firewhiskey or whatever else is handy, so yes, Malfoy. Life is simply grand. Fame is the answer to everything,” 

“I ought to have known that the suffering was limited to Gryffindors only. I’m so grateful there weren’t any losses on our side,” Malfoy snarled. 

“Like Crabbe? Forgive me if I haven’t shed a tear for someone who tried to kill me.” 

“No, not bloody Crabbe! What about my mother, hm?” 

When Hermione was young, she’d read about a terrible disaster in Pripyat in Ukraine. The part that stuck with her was not the initial report of casualties when the reactor had exploded. What bothered her most were the reports of countless others who’d died months or even years down the road because of their exposure to the radiation. Death had spread outward from the disaster like ripples on a pond. War was like that, she decided after being back at The Burrow for a couple of days. The worst was over, but it was still like living in a house full of ghosts. No one laughed. No one conversed. They just drifted from room to room, trying desperately to feel human again. 

Then, one bright summer morning, the first owl came. The Creevey’s parents had _Avada_ ’ _d_ one another as they sat on the graves of their sons. Another owl followed days later. Oliver Wood had caught a curse during the final battle that waited nearly a month to kill him. Through a floo call, they’d learned that at least two of Fenrir’s other victims had decided they’d rather be dead than werewolves. 

Hermione had known that it wasn't just their side either. Pius Thicknesse had barely been able to put two words together once they took the Imperius curse off him, and now he was in St. Mungo’s rubbing elbows with the likes of Gilderoy Lockheart. Stan Shunpike had only lasted a week in Azkaban before he completely lost his mind, not that anyone noticed. And Lucius Malfoy, knowing that he would be convicted, and rather than bear the shame of incarceration, had killed his wife before turning his wand on himself. The Aurors had shown up just in time. 

Or rather, they had shown up a little early. 

Or perhaps a little late. 

It depended on who you felt sorriest for. 

Hermione wasn’t sure she felt sorry for any of them. They'd all chosen darkness for one reason or another. For the Malfoys, choosing darkness seemed like something of a family business. 

Malfoy's mother must have been turning against it in the end, however. Hermione knew this because the one nice thing she had ever heard about a Malfoy was something Harry had told her as she’d roused him from a nightmare that left him thrashing in front of the common room fire one night. 

“She was kind to Harry, you know. In the forest. She may have saved his life,” Hermione said, still not daring to look at the young man across from her. 

“Well, that’s a great comfort,” Malfoy said loftily, placing a hand over his heart. “She may be dead, but at least she was nice to Harry bloody Potter,” 

“I am sorry,” she said after a minute had passed, “About your mother.” 

“Oh, save your sympathy,” he waved her words away as though they were gnats floating about his head. “My side lost, and yours won. Mother was just...collateral damage, I suppose,” He finished with a sigh.

“You talk like it was a Quidditch game!” Hermione was angry again. How could he be so flippant? Perhaps it had felt like a game to him, at least while he'd been winning it. At the outset, at least, maybe the stakes hadn’t been clear to him.  “The war was awf-“ 

“Don’t bloody lecture me about the war!” He shouted. Suddenly Malfoy was on his feet, and it struck Hermione how tall he was. She scrambled to her feet to face him, but he was still far taller. She had always thought him somewhat intimidating in his precision, with his hair coiffed and the lines of his suit exact; even his penmanship had been angular and sharp. Now, standing so close to him with his shirt wrinkled and untucked, his hair mussed, with dark shadows beneath his eyes, she realized the intimidation came from Malfoy himself. 

“I am well acquainted with how awful the war was,” he said, the strain of keeping calm evident in his voice.

“Malfoy, your mother-“ 

He cut her off again. “Not just my mother! Do you have any idea what it's like to be so sure of something for so many years, to follow the leader for your whole life, and then realize that the leader is bloody insane?” 

“But Voldemort was-,” Hermione began. She was unsure what, if anything, was to be gained by arguing with him, but she couldn’t just let him shout at her. 

“Not Voldemort. _My father_. The darling of the Pureblood community, patriarch of one of the oldest families in Wizarding England, powerful ministry lobbyist, and a complete bastard.” 

Hermione had opened her mouth to argue with what had initially sounded like a glowing description of a man she knew as a fiend, but she closed it with a snap as Malfoy changed course, and it appeared he was just getting started.

“I was six the first time he hit me,” he carried on, ignoring Hermione’s sharp intake of breath at this revelation.  “I learned very young that playing with _certain_ children was to be discouraged. With _gusto_.” 

It was a little frightening how much Malfoy did sound like Lucius, and Hermione couldn’t help but look up at her wand, still stuck fast to the ceiling. 

“And from then on, I was groomed to replace him. I was going to be the patriarch. I was going to be powerful. So, I had to learn how to be like him. I stopped thanking the house elves for things because they wouldn’t quit beating themselves when I did it. I quit trying to sneak out to visit that undesirable friend from when I was six because father burned their house down, and they had to move. I stopped trying to convince my mother to leave when she told me she’d die without him. It took me a while to realize what she meant was that he’d kill her if she tried.” 

Hermione swallowed the sob that threatened to fight its way past her lips. 

"You say my mother was nice to Harry. She was nice when she was allowed to be nice. Care to hazard a guess at how often that happened?” 

Hermione could do nothing but stare at him. 

“And then sixth year rolled around, and things really got serious. I acquired some spell damage of my own,” Malfoy said with a sardonic smile, hooking a finger around the cuff of his shirt and pulling it up to reveal the entirety of his dark mark. It had faded into angry red lines on his arm once Voldemort was truly dead, and it now looked as though it had been burned there. 

“Father wasn’t beating me anymore since I’d finally learned to hit back, but now I’d been tasked with killing a man I respected for a cause I wasn’t even sure I believed in anymore. By then, though, there was no backing out. My father put me in for a gram, and now I was in for a galleon.” 

Hermione hadn't realized he was advancing on her until she noticed she was backing away. A small panicked sound escaped her as her back hit the shelf. Malfoy didn’t seem to have heard it. He kept closing in.

“And in the midst of all of it, like a complete ass, I’d fallen in love. At first, I thought it was just youthful rebellion. I was focusing on something so frivolous to get back at my father for being hard on me. Then I thought perhaps it was hate, and not love that made my body go all hot whenever I thought of her, or spoke to her, or brushed her shoulder in a crowded corridor. It couldn't have been hate, though, because, in my dreams, I wasn’t shouting at her or hurting her, I was kissing her, caressing her, running my fingers through her hair.” 

He reached up to tug gently on a curl that had escaped its place behind Hermione’s ear and sighed. She didn’t dare move. 

“regardless, I thought it would eventually go away. It didn’t, and it hasn’t. I stayed in love with her. I loved her when she hit me and when she yelled at me, and I loved her while I watched her be tortured. I loved her even though I stood there like a coward just staring because, as I’d been for years, I was in over my head. So don’t bloody talk to me about how awful the war was. At least you won. You can get on with your life, and you’re not stupidly in love with someone who hates you. I have to remake my entire existence while people stare and whisper about my dead mother and my mad father and whether or not I should be in prison, and I'm wasting valuable time pining like an idiot for someone who probably wishes me dead.”

It was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. Had Snape's jinx changed? Was it going to suffocate them now? Hermione’s brain felt like it was wading through honey. She’d had no idea about Malfoy’s father. It was always clear that Lucius Malfoy was a monster, but she had never known to what degree. Hermione came up with several different things to say, but discarded nearly all of them, finally settling on: 

“I...I didn’t know Pansy was tortured.” 

Her eyes were downcast. Malfoy was standing so close now that she could smell him. The fragrance was like a forest in winter, crisp and fresh. He placed a hand on the shelf on either side of her shoulders, pinning her in, and slowly, so slowly that Hermione didn’t realize what was happening until skin touched skin, he leaned down and rested his forehead against her own. 

“For the smartest witch in this entire castle, you can really be an idiot.” 

Hermione stood frozen. Why was he saying that? Other than just being Malfoy, of course. She didn’t think she’d said anything that stupid but-

“Not Pansy, Hermione, you. I'm in love with you.” 

Hermione. That was her name, right? Why on earth did it sound so funny all of a sudden? 

“I don’t know that I’ve ever actually called you by your first name.” 

He leaned back to look at her, and she had the sneaking suspicion that he could hear the gears of her mind whirring away. “ Not to your face, at least.” 

She sputtered, waiting for him to laugh or to smirk or to shout at her again. Instead, he just stood there, being thoroughly un-Malfoy. 

“Say something,” he commanded gently, dipping his head again to try and capture her gaze, but she wouldn’t let him have it. She wasn’t ready to look at him yet. Her mind was racing. Had she heard him correctly? Had he just said he was in love with her? 

“But I punched you,” she said after a moment. It wasn’t poignant, but she felt it was commendable to have put together a sentence at all under the circumstances. The chuckle that followed her pronouncement drew her gaze upward. Malfoy instantly caught it. 

“You did,” he agreed, sounding almost as though he remembered the interaction fondly.

“And you...you...” she trailed. She hugged her middle defensively. What had Draco Malfoy done? Gods, where to begin? There were so many things to be angry at him for, and she _was_ angry. Or, at least she had been. Did she hate him, though? 

A year or two ago, Hermione would have said she didn’t hate anyone. She’d seen things during the war, though, that had changed her mind. She hated Voldemort, certainly. She hated Lucius Malfoy, definitely. In fact, she hated him more tonight than she ever had before. Draco was a different case. He had been mean and snide and a bully as long as she’d known him, but did she hate him for it? Could she, knowing what all he’d been through? 

“I did,” he agreed again, as though he was following her train of thought. He dropped his hands and took a step back, looking sheepish. “And I can’t undo any of it,” Malfoy added, shoving his hands into his pockets. He let the silence hang between them until he couldn't take it anymore. 

“I’m sure it probably doesn’t mean anything, but I’m sorry. Merlin, I’m sorry. I know it’s an understatement to say I’ve been a spiteful, cantankerous ass, and, honestly, I will probably continue to be a spiteful, cantankerous ass, but I love you, Hermione, and I’m rather glad that you know. It’s been bloody annoying trying to pretend I loathe you for seven and a half years.” 

Without another thought, Hermione surged forward, flinging her arms around Draco’s neck and crashing her lips into his. It was the same thing she’d seen herself doing to Ron in fantasies for years, though not so much recently. Draco was only momentarily stunned, but within a single moment, he’d caught her around the waist and was returning the kiss, to use his words, with _gusto_. Seconds later, as he was ever so gently trying to coax her lips open with his tongue, Hermione tore herself away. He made to reach for her, but she held up a hand. 

“I...” she began, panting a little, “I was testing a theory.” 

“And?” he asked, a hopeful smile playing around his lips. “Will you share your findings?” 

“I definitely don’t hate you, Draco.”

As she said it, she felt in her bones that it was true. Draco let out a breath he’d been holding with a soft woosh, and his forehead drooped against hers once more. 

“Say it again,” he sighed. 

"I don’t hate you,” she repeated, pulling back to ghost a kiss against his forehead. Hermione wondered, given what she had learned about his mother, when the last time was that someone had been kind to Draco Malfoy. How low was that particular bar set that he should be so affected by her saying she didn’t hate him

“No,” he rasped, “the other thing.” 

The other thing? What else had she-?

Oh. 

“ _Draco_.” 

He closed his eyes, and she watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, like the sound of his name on her lips had been something sweet to drink. 

“I want to kiss you again,” he said, his eyes popping open again. “Rather badly, actually.” 

Hermione shrugged. “I suppose if you must.” 

With a quickness that surprised her, Hermione found herself pressed against the shelf once more. One of Draco’s hands found its way to the nape of her neck, applying slight pressure to angle her face and provide better access to her mouth, the other grasped her hip. 

There was an incredibly strange rightness to kissing Draco Malfoy, despite how wrong it would have been on parchment. No one had ever touched her like this, and the last person in the world she expected to be the first was him. Even still, she half expected him to pull back and laugh at her, not necessarily because of who he was, but because she had been through so, so much in the last few years that the feeling of something genuinely pleasurable was almost foreign. There had been successes during the war, yes, and she would be eternally grateful that they had won it, but Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d partaken in something purely fun, a little selfish, and felt this _good_. 

His hand slipped under the edge of her jumper, and up her rib cage, the movement slow and lazy. After all, the two of them weren’t going anywhere. When his fingers ghosted against the band of her bra, she jerked in surprise, smacking the back of her head against the end of the shelf. 

“Ow!” she cried, lifting a hand she hadn't realized was grasping at Draco’s once-crisp shirt to pat gingerly at the place where her head had met the hard surface. In an instant, though, he’d pulled her forward into his arms, and pressed two soft kisses against the top of her head. 

Once he’d for all intents and purposes “kissed it better”, she expected Draco to release her, but he didn’t. 

“I wanted so badly to do this,” he murmured into her hair, “that night at the Manor. I thought she was going to kill you, and I’d never been so scared in my life,” His hand dipped, grasping her wrist and sliding up over her marred forearm. 

“It hasn’t changed, you know.” 

The words tumbled from Hermione’s mouth as though they’d been waiting behind her teeth for an opportunity to sneak out and make themselves known. Draco looked up at her curiously. 

“What hasn’t?” 

Hermion’s arm twitched in his grasp, and she held her chin higher by a fraction of an inch. 

“My blood,” she answered finally. “I'm still a mudblood. I will always be a mudblood,” Shame washed across Draco’s face, but he held her gaze. 

"Hermione, I have seen your blood. It looks exactly like mine.”

He pulled her arm upward between them and, to Hermione’s astonishment, he bent his head and kissed it. Draco laid his lips against every letter of the slur cursed into her arm, and she felt the apology in his touch. When he was finished, he lead her away from the shelf and seated himself against the stone wall, gently pulling Hermione down next to him. Momentarily, they lapsed into a companionable silence, both staring into the dim green haze. Malfoy looked up at her from time to time, reacting with every furtive glance as though he was surprised to find her there. After several of these glances, he was taken aback when he turned to find her staring at him.

“What were you looking for?” Hermione asked abruptly. He chuckled, reaching across to place his hand atop her own. When she didn’t flinch away, he wrapped up her fingers in his. 

“Merlin, your mind doesn’t stop for anything, does it?” 

She blushed slightly, peeking down at their joined hands. “I'll tell you if you tell me,” Hermione promised. She still felt a little self-conscious, holding hands with a man she could have sworn she seriously disliked several hours ago, but their banter came so naturally, likely because they had been fighting since they’d met eight years ago. It was like talking to Harry or Ron, while simultaneously being nothing like talking to either of them. 

“Crushed moonstone,” he said, pulling her hand to his lips and ghosting kisses across her knuckles, “and flobberworm mucus.” 

His head was bent a mere moment too long, but she caught on. He was avoiding looking at her. 

“You were making a dreamless sleep drought?” 

“Five points to Gryffindor,” he repeated, though his voice completely lacked the venom it had been laced with earlier. He drove the point home by dropping another kiss on the back of her hand.

“As it happens,” Draco continued, finally looking up, “Harry Potter does not have the market cornered with regards to night terrors.” 

“Oh,” Hermione said, letting the words wash over her, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” 

“Fortunately, I happen to be a rather gifted potion maker,” he said smugly. 

“Alright, your turn,” Draco continued, his voice full of mock seriousness. “What’s got our Head Girl sneaking about in the dead of night?” 

“Well, nothing so noble,” Hermione answered, and then it was her turn to look down.

“Oh no?” His voice was still mocking and serious, but was now more of the latter than the former.  “Now I’m very intrigued.” 

“Boomslang skin.” 

Hermione waited, watching his face. He would likely be running through his mental encyclopedia of potions and potion ingredients, trying to figure out where bloomslang skin fit in. She had to admit she’d given him a far more difficult task than he’d given her. Finally, he scoffed. 

“Well, that could be anything!” Draco said with a halfhearted scowl. 

“It’s, I mean, well, it’s not for me,” she hedged. Draco continued to stare her down.  “It’s...alright, do you remember Lee Jordan?” 

Now he looked truly bewildered. 

“He gave the boys a recipe, and apparently if you, er, if you add the boomslang skin and stir clockwise nine times...well...” Hermione shrugged helplessly. “Oh, Draco, they’re getting _high_ ,” she cupped her hands around her face to hide it from him. Draco began to tremble and then to shake.

He was _laughing at her_.

Hermione was not sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. Draco gently clasped his hands around her wrists and coaxed her hands away from her face. 

“Of all the things I thought were impossible, I’ve seen two of them with my own eyes tonight. Oh, gods,” he paused to wipe away a stray tear, “oh, that is rich. Hermione Granger, drug dealer.” 

“I am not!” she said defensively. Draco continued laughing. “I mean, it’s not as though they're paying me or anything,” she protested, looking away from him. Draco reached over to cup her cheek, turning her face back toward him. 

“You are ridiculous. And adorable. And your friends are idiots.” 

The smile blooming on Hermione's face died away as the realization dawned on her. “What will they say? Oh god, what will I tell them? Snogging Draco Malfoy in a closet...they’ll think I’ve lost my mind.” 

“If it's any consolation,” Draco murmured seriously, “I sort of wonder if you've lost your mind.” 

Hermione snorted indelicately. Had she? Since they stepped foot back on the Hogwarts grounds, Ron and Harry had been indulging in their vices. It wasn’t just butterbeer or boomslang skin either. She'd caught Harry and Ginny all but shagging in the common room one very early morning when she'd had trouble sleeping, and when she scolded them for doing such a thing in a public space, they had thrown Ron right under the bus, explaining that he had been disappearing at all hours for "quiet time” with Lavender. 

Was this-whatever _this_ was-like that? Was Draco simply an indulgence that she would look back on and sigh embarrassedly at? Or laugh? She scooted back slightly, desperate to distance herself from the presence she was coming to find intoxicating so that she could think clearly. He seemed to sense the motivation behind her pulling away and let her go. 

"Hermione, you can tell them as much or as little as you want.” 

“What would you tell them?” she asked. 

“I"d tell them to sod off,” Draco replied without missing a beat. Hermione pursed her lips, but her eyes were smiling. 

“What I mean to say is: what do you want from this? What happens next? Do you want to be my boyfriend?” A soft gasp escaped him, and she hastily began to backpedal. 

“No, I mean, of course you wouldn't.”

Hermione could honestly say she'd never spent any great amount of time paying attention to Draco's love life because it hadn't seemed like he had one. She had occasionally seen Pansy simpering at him over breakfast, or Astoria Greengrass perched on the edge of his desk in potions, but she'd never known him to have a girlfriend. That didn't mean, of course, that he hadn't been, well, _friendly_ with them. 

Hermione prided herself on being at least academically comfortable with the idea of nuance, but some things in life were black and white for her. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to pursue something with Draco, but if she did, she didn't think she could do it by halves. 

"Hermione, look at me.” 

She raised her eyes, preparing for the worst. 

“I reacted that way because none of this was ever going to happen. I told you two impossible things had happened tonight. One, as we've discussed, is your burgeoning career as a drug lord. The other is this.” 

He reached down to pick up her hand as he continued. “This was never going to happen. To be honest, I sort of viewed it as my penance for being such a prat for, well, my entire life. That's why I never said anything. Well, that and the shame of being in love with a Gryffindor. I mean, I have a reputation to uphold- I'm _joking_ ,” he said at the look on her face. 

“If you want it,” Draco began again, the mirth entirely gone from his voice, "I will be your boyfriend. If you want it, I will never speak to you again. You don't seem the type, but if you want it, we can just meet back down here occasionally for a snog. What matters is that you don't hate me, because that is far more than I deserve,”

“I think,” Hermione said, after taking a few moments to gather her thoughts, "Well, I think I ought to sleep on it. Preferably not on a stone floor,” she said, looking around forlornly. 

“Not that I've ever tried it,” Draco said, calling her attention back, “but I think I make a very respectable pillow. And besides, it's not as though you lack cushion,” he finished, raising a hand to fluff her curls.

“I realize you said you’d have to sleep on it,” Draco continued cautiously. “And I don't want to push you or anything, it's just...of the options I've presented you with, can I at least assume you're not choosing option B: never talk to Draco again?” 

Feeling almost unreasonably bold, Hermione reached up to tangle her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and then said:

“We don't have to talk.” 

Draco's eyes blazed as the distance between them shrank and shrank, before disappearing entirely. 

His hands traveled to uncharted territory, exploring places only she had ever traversed. They slid against the skin of her rib cage and drifted lazily up her thighs and then down again when she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He caught it though. He seemed to catch everything. She thought that there had only ever been animosity between them, but now he seemed determined to show her how mistaken she was, at least regarding his side of things. 

He knew exactly where to put his hands to elicit gasps of pleasure and gratified sighs. His lips gravitated toward that spot on her neck that sent shivers through her, as though he'd been given a roadmap to her flesh. Her hands, in turn, divided their time between the hair at the base of his skull and the smooth planes of his stomach. 

One word always seemed to come to mind when she thought about Draco in previous years, and that word was 'cold'. It was astonishing to her, now, how warm he was, and how soft. Realistically, she knew he wasn't made of ice, or stone, however unfeeling he had seemed, but the Draco she was experiencing now, as his fingers stroked gently through her curls, and his lips whispered about her beauty, was downright snuggly. 

The rough pad of his thumb was skating across the soft flesh just above the cup of her bra when their wands clattered to the floor, and the door swung open with a soft creak. The noise startled them both, and momentarily, Hermione wondered if perhaps Snape's jinx was not the only spell broken. 

In an instant, Draco had a hand on either side of her face. 

"Ignore it,” he breathed against her lips. 

Hermione allowed him to drop a chaste kiss there before pulling away, grasping each of his hands in one of her own. 

“I should get back.” 

It was the Head Girl and the female third of the Golden Trio who spoke, and Hermione hoped he could look past that and hear the regret behind both of her official personas. She hoped it was obvious that Hermione, just as a young woman, wanted desperately to stay. 

“Can I...” he trailed off, sounding as unsure as she''d ever heard. “Can I see you tomorro-“ 

“Yes,” she answered firmly before he got the question all the way out. With a sigh of relief, Draco stood, extending a hand to Hermione to pull her up with him. He walked to where their wands lay, sweeping down to pluck both of them from the floor. After handing Hermione's wand back to her, he disappeared among the shelves. 

“Draco? Draco, what are you...” 

There was wandlight and muttering, and then he came back into view, carrying a delicate glass vial filled with-

“Boomslang skin. That should be quite enough for them to hear the voice of Merlin or smell colors or whatever it is they're trying to do.” 

Draco smirked, handing the vial to her, and deliberately prolonging the contact of her fingers and his hand. The smirk was the same as it had always been, but Hermione almost felt as though she could see something different in it now. Perhaps there had always been something hidden in his smirk just for her, and she'd simply never noticed it. 

"What about the moonstone and-“

“Hermione,” he stopped her, wrapping her once more in his arms and speaking against her curls. “I genuinely don't think I'll need it. I anticipate sleeping better tonight than I have in years. I'll be dreaming of the look on Potter's stupid face when you tell him where you've been.” 

“Draco!” Hermione admonished, swatting at him. 

“You know, I really think I could get used to that,” he said thoughtfully, ignoring her halfhearted attempts to extricate herself from the hug. “It's better than ‘ferret’, anyway.” 

It took them another several minutes to detach from one another, as they kept coming back to steal 'one last kiss'. 

After a couple of unintentional detours, due to distraction, Hermione made it back to the Gryffindor common room, still blushing furiously at the thought of seeing anyone other than the man she'd just had an extremely scandalous interlude with. Ron and Harry, to their credit, had at least not gone up to bed without waiting for Hermione's return. Instead, they had collapsed onto one another on a sofa before the fire. Neither of them looked at risk for a neck ache, so she left them where they lay, after transfiguring a blanket for them and magicking away the empty butterbeer bottles at their feet. By her count, they'd passed out shortly after she'd left them. Spinning out could obviously wait for tomorrow. 

A smile still playing around her swollen lips, Hermione went up to bed. 

__________________

Over breakfast the next morning, Ron and Harry continued stealing glances at Hermione over their pumpkin juice as she delicately sipped at her milky tea, purposefully ignoring them both. 

"Alright, out with it!” 

Naturally, it was Ron who spoke first. Harry immediately set down his fork and knife and sat at attention, as though he'd been waiting all morning for this outburst. 

“With what?” Hermione asked innocently, though completely unconvincingly. 

“Please,” Ron scoffed, looking to Harry for support. 

“He's right, know know,” Harry said, his tone gentler than Ron's. “You look like Crookshanks if he'd eaten a bloody canary,” 

“Or a rat,” Ron mumbled under his breath. 

“That rat was a war criminal!” Hermione snapped. Even though the three of them knew well that Ron's rat, Scabbers, firstly, wasn't a rat at all, but traitor Peter Pettigrew, and, secondly, hadn't been eaten by Crookshanks at all, much to their eventual dismay, Ron was still slightly miffed, on principle, that Hermione's pet would even hypothetically eat a facsimile of Ron's somewhat beloved pet rat. She said nothing further on the topic but instead continued to sip at her tea and try not to glance too often at the nearly vacant Slytherin table. 

“Come off it, Hermione,” Ron continued to badger. “You went off to get the you-know-what from you-know-where and you never came back! Now you're sitting here pleased as punch about-Oi! What are you looking at?” 

Hermione's eyes snapped away from Drac's empty seat at the center of the bench at the Slytherin table. 

“Now, really,” Hermione countered, attempting to maintain cover just a little bit longer. “You say that as though I ran off all on my own. You sent me down there, the both of you! And I...I...” she couldn't even say what, let alone with whom. 

“Bloody hell!” Ron crowed, pumping his fist in the air and nearly upending his goblet. Hermione immediately had the sense that she'd been caught. She tried to keep the bulk of the horror from her face, but it was inevitable that some of it would escape across her features. She had learned early on in life that she would never be a successful poker player.

“What?” she asked, looking desperately between the two of them. 

“You've finally had a shag, haven't you!” Ron exclaimed. 

“Ronald!” Hermione cried, looking wildly around to see if anyone had heard. 

“Was it Ernie? I've got a galleon on Ernie,” he asked, ignoring her plea. Hermione glanced at Harry for support, but he continued to grin at her uselessly. 

“I haven't had a shag with anyone, and certainly not with Ernie!” Hermione hissed. 

"Why not?” Ron asked glancing across to the Hufflepuff table. “He's an alright chap. Bit of a windbag, yes, but alright besides.” 

“Because, Ron,” she answered, widening her eyes significantly. “ _You_ are more Ernie's type.” 

“But why would I...oh,” Hermione couldn't help a tiny smile from inching its way back onto her lips. 

“So,” she said with what she hoped was an air of finality, “I hope that's put an end to your wild fantasies about who I have or have not been shagging because-“ 

“Good morning, Hermione.” 

When Hermione had first been coming into her magic as a small child, she had been fascinated by her mother's makeup routine, which seemed like a magic all it's own. One morning, she became fixated on a tin of blush and asked to have it. Her mother had gently responded by telling her that four-year-olds do not need blush. Tiny Hermione had stood there, glaring at her mother's back until, all of a sudden, the little tin of blush zoomed off the counter, landing right in her hand. Then, of course, it had blown up, showering Hermione and her mother and that section of the bathroom in iridescent pink powder. 

Hermione imagined that she looked much the same as she had at the tender age of four as she turned to face Draco Malfoy, blushing crimson from her curls to her toes. She had briefly entertained the idea that the previous night had been a dream. Even though she could still feel his arms around her and the warmth of his lips on her skin, it very well could have been a dream. 

An extremely lovely dream. 

“Oi, what did you call her?” Ron was yelling over her head. Draco dragged his gaze away from Hermione's face and looked at her two friends. 

“I believe her name _is_ Hermione?” he said, lightly. Ron sputtered slightly. Harry recovered for him. 

“Yeah, but it's not as though you ever use it.” 

“Well,” Draco said with a shrug, before lowering himself onto the bench next to Hermione as though it was the most natural thing in the world, “perhaps I've decided to turn over a new leaf,” 

“Charming,” Ron said snidely, “but you can't teach an old ferret new tricks.” 

"Ferrets are very intelligent animals,” Hermione blurted out. For a few seconds, she had felt as though she was in suspended animation, having been struck somewhat dumb by the reality of, well, reality. It was still shocking to her that she'd kissed Draco and he'd kissed her and that they'd said the things that they'd said and done the things that they'd done and it hadn't all been a figment of her imagination. Now, though, she had come back to life and was ready to face the firing squad. After all, it couldn't be that much harder to convince them that Draco was harmless than it was to convince them of Viktor's innocence.

Then again... 

“What the devil do you think you're doing?” Harry, apparently choosing to ignore her outburst, asked incredulously as Draco prepared himself a cup of tea, still looking entirely unbothered. 

“I'm having breakfast with Hermione,” he answered serenely, nodding his head toward her. “Could you pass the sugar?” 

“He said it again!” Ron gasped, pointing at Draco, as though he had said some awful swear word. 

“Look Malfoy,” Harry began, now ignoring Ron's outburst, “I don't know what you're playing at but you can't just show up at the breakfast table uninvited and talking nonsense and expect us to not to have anything to say about it.” 

“Draco,” Hermione said, handing the sugar bowl to him, “would you like to have breakfast with us? With me, at least?” she finished, bracing herself for impact. All three of them spoke at once. 

“Yes,” said Draco. 

“What?” yelled Harry and Ron together. People were beginning to stare. 

Hermione smiled up at Draco and set to work buttering a scone while he loaded up his plate with scrambled eggs. When Hermione passed him a platter of sausages, he thanked her by dropping a kiss on the top of her head. 

“Hermione, are you going to explain this?” Harry asked while Ron gaped at her in horror.

For the first time in her life, Hermione had knowledge that she didn't feel the need to share. 

“No,” she said, “No, I don't think I will.”


End file.
